


The Boat Race

by Million_Moments, Willowsticks



Category: Death in Paradise
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-25
Updated: 2015-04-11
Packaged: 2018-03-09 02:04:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3232166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Million_Moments/pseuds/Million_Moments, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Willowsticks/pseuds/Willowsticks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Boat Race comes to Saint Marie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Willowsticks and I had another crack at writing something together - just for fun. Its a bit silly but we kind of felt that we needed something to take our minds off series 4....

“What are you looking at?”  The question had taken Richard by surprise, so engrossed had he been in looking at his computer.

“Hmmm?  Oh Nothing.”  He hadn’t been quick enough to close the window before Camille had appeared behind him.

“Men in lycra? “  She scoffed.  “I should say that I’m surprised but...”

“But what?” He said flatly, daring her to continue the sentence. In truth, she lacked a witty way to end it, she had just assumed he would get embarrassed, deny he was looking at the pictures for _that_ reason and tell her the real reason.

“Nothing,” she eventually said innocently. “I am sure you have a perfectly valid reason to be browsing pictures of fit young men in tight outfits at work. Perhaps you suspect one to be responsible for that spate of thefts from the Harbour Gym?”

“Actually,” he said stiffly, “I do.”

“Suspect them of the thefts?”             

“No!”  He never knew why he had to explain himself to her, why she never understood him.  He huffed annoyed, “they’re my old rowing team.”

She looked as though she couldn’t quite believe him.  “You used to row?”

“Of course I didn’t row for Cambridge, but I rowed at school a bit.”

“And we all know how well that went,” she said, alluding to the way he had reacted when they first went out in _Roast Beef_. To be fair to him, he had gotten a lot better since. “Plus I don’t think lycra is really your look.” Richard actually looked a little upset, perhaps mentioning the school thing was not the best of ideas. Or maybe it was the not looking good in lycra bit that has insulted him…She decided it was best to just plow on. “So if you didn’t row with them how are they ‘your’ rowing team?”

“Because of the boat race.”  He was speaking to her as if she were a simpleton.  She rewarded him by giving him a blank look.  “The Oxford Cambridge boat race?”  He was still speaking slowly and her eyes were beginning to narrow in annoyance.  “The one that’s happened every year in the middle of London since 1836..?”  Still nothing. “Come on Camille, everyone’s heard of it...”  

“Well clearly they haven’t since I am someone, and therefore part of everyone,” she said, a little testy at him thinking her ignorant.

“Ok,” he said, sitting back and becoming suddenly animated. Camille knew this wasn’t going to be a short explanation. “Cambridge and Oxford are the top universities in the world…”

“In the UK,” she interrupted him to correct.

He waved her comment away with his hand signalling that her point was irrelevant.  Clearly Richard didn’t think much of the US universities.  And she already knew how he felt about _anything_ French.

“And, every year, they challenge each other to a boat race that takes place on the Thames. It is a major sporting event in the UK, shown live on the BBC and people gather on the banks of the Thames as well. In fact I used to go down every year as well. “You?  You joined crowds of people to watch a sporting event?”  She was sceptical. He hadn’t shown an interest in any other sports since he had been here – Camille had thought he would enjoy the cricket match between Saint Marie and Dominica she had brought him to. After all, wasn’t cricket the ultimate English sport, barely understood by nations that hadn’t once been colonised by Britain? And she’d heard _all_ about his bowling efforts that had led to the arrest of Paul Vincent. But he had spent the whole time complaining about standing in the heat, and the attitude of the teams to the game being all wrong and hadn’t seemed to enjoy it at all. And since she didn’t understand cricket, she had been pretty miserable as well. Camille have concluded Richard just didn’t do sports.   

“Yes, I did.  Every year until I came out here.”    His pride at doing something that surprised her gave way to his usual grumble.  “And now I can’t even watch it on tv, because my tv doesn’t work.” 

“It works!”

“It’s in French.  It doesn’t work.”

“It is a television Richard, if it shows tv channels then it does work!” Camille couldn’t help but continue to press the point. “You just think because it doesn’t show the channels _you_ want it is useless!”

“Well it _is_ for my purposes,” he countered.  “It should show things that I want to watch.”

“Like Fiona Bruce.”

“Like,” he corrected her, “the Antiques Roadshow, yes.”

Camille had looked up the Antiques Roadshow, interested to see what type of programme had managed to capture Richard’s attention from his books, and had been dismayed to find that it was a very dull one. 

“She’s very pretty,” she said slyly. “That Fiona Bruce.”

“She’s alright.”

“Some might even say stunning,” she teased, not falling for his apparent ambivalence one bit. “Especially in that advert where she slow motion catches the vase.”

“I have no idea what you are talking about,” he told her. He even managed to look her in the eye – Camille was impressed, he could bluff well on occasion.

“Oh?” She said, raising a single eyebrow. “So if I checked your internet history I wouldn’t find it watched, liked and added to your favourites?” That gave him pause. Camille knew it to be the case, because she had shown Richard how to use YouTube (he knew so much about some aspects of technology, but displayed a remarkable lack of knowledge about others) and had been following his activity. He probably hadn’t realised that sort of thing was public.

He didn’t reply, but huffed instead, muttering something about lack of privacy and how that sort of thing would never happen back in London.  Camille was not put off.  “Isn’t she a little old for you Richard?  Fiona Bruce?”

“Do you have a problem with age, Camille?”  Even as he said it, he knew that he should have ignored her.  This conversation bore no reference to work, or even, that matter to the boat race. 

“No,” she said simply. “I don’t think it matters if you truly love someone.”

There then followed an awkward pause – or at least Richard felt it was awkward. Camille seemed simply amused. “Well I don’t have any intention of declaring my undying love for Fiona Bruce anytime soon,” he said, trying to break the moment. “Though I may be willing to marry anyone who can get me a TV showing the boat race this weekend,” he joked.

“Is it on the BBC?”  It was meant as an innocent question but given his last comment it took on an entirely new meaning. 

He flushed bright red, harrumphed and said, “yes, yes it is. But you can’t watch it outside of the UK.  Believe me, I’ve tried.”

She raised a single eyebrow at him and said simply, “we’ll see.”

 

* * *

 

Catherine did not usually need much of an excuse to throw a party, but her daughter’s current proposal had caught her a little off guard. “A boat race?” She repeated. “You mean like sailing?” She had images of sail boats racing along the English south coast like in the Olympics, she could imagine that would be exciting to watch.

“No, rowing, along the Thames.”

“Oh,” she said, hiding her surprise. She could also see the appeal in watching young men row, and while all of them would no doubt be far too young for _her_ , she couldn’t imagine that that would make it party worthy or why, even more puzzlingly, Richard apparently wanted to watch young men in lycra.

“Are you sure that’s what Richard wants?”  She was mulling it over, muttering to herself, “he’s never really been that interested in sports.”  But if Richard’s mercurial nature was a mystery to her then it would have to stay that way.  She made a quick decision, if Richard liked rowing, then he liked rowing.  She shrugged.  “But of course we can have a party!”

“Thank you, _Maman_!” Camille said brightly, leaning in and kissing her mother on the cheek. “We’ll need lots of blue decorations! I can help you pick them out and set up if you like.”

Catherine smiled graciously at her daughter, “Well you never failed me on the decoration front before so I won’t say no to the help! Why blue though?”

“Because that is what the teams wear.”

“They both wear blue?  Isn’t that a bit confusing?”

Camille shrugged.  “I don’t really get it either.  Richard’s spent all morning trying to explain.  Apparently it’s a big deal in the UK.”  She was picking idly at some nuts on the bar. “I think they’re different blues though – I’ll check.”

 “And I will invite people!  It’s not a party without people!”  Camille wasn’t too sure how well Richard would react to having a crowd of random men and women he didn’t know at an event that had been specifically designed for him, but said nothing.  It would be good for him, she decided, to be sociable for once.  And if he was that desperate to watch the race, then she was sure he would put up with it. 

“Excellent – we can start at lunchtime just before the boat race starts and carry on until the evening!”

“I suppose roast beef should be on the menu?”

“I don’t know.  From the way Richard was talking, I think everyone has burgers and beer.”

“Oh!”  If Catherine was suitably impressed by Richard embracing anything other than his usual ham sandwiches then she was more perplexed by another thought that suddenly struck her.  “In April?  Outside?”  She would never understand him. 

Camille shrugged, again thinking that if he was so desperate to see the boat race then she could take certain liberties wherever she wanted, she secretly couldn’t wait to see him with a burger and beer.  Perhaps he would even forgo his suit and tie.  Although she had no idea what he would wear instead.  She silently contemplated his wardrobe, her mind lingered on him removing his tie before she realised that it probably wasn’t the best thought to have when she was in the vicinity of her mother.  She was interrupted from her planning by a slightly bookish looking man in his late 30s, waving an empty bottle of beer at them.  It amused her that he looked slightly like Richard.  Would she never escape him? 

“Sorry, can I have 5 more?”

“Of course.”  Catherine was the ever perfect landlady.  She was dealing with the beers when she turned to Camille, “I thought London was freezing in April.”

The man interrupted.  “It can be,” then realised that it might have been a private conversation.  “Um, sorry.”

“No, that’s fine!”  Catherine’s face lit up at the prospect to interrogate a Londoner about her upcoming party, which she promptly did.

“You’re joking, right?” The mystery stranger said, delighted, after hearing their plan. “Will you be open to the public? Tell me you’ll be open to the public!”

Catherine, who wasn’t one to miss an opportunity to make money whilst throwing a party, said “Well I don’t see why not! You wish to come?”

“Not just me, they’ll be…oh…say 30 of us?” Open seeing the surprised look on the pair’s face he explained, “There are a bunch of Pembrokeians here for a reunion you see.” That didn’t really help clear things up for the women, who were unfamiliar with the collegiate organisation of Oxbridge. He seemed to realise this, “Pembroke, it’s one of the colleges. And we’ve been desperately seeking a place to watch the boat race, you can’t get the BBC out here, believe me we’ve tried!” Camille bit back a smile as she remembered not only Richard’s exact words that morning but also the tinny music of the Antiques Roadshow and how excited he had been by even the smallest hope of seeing something that the BBC produced.

“Perfect – I’ll let Richard know, my boss,” she clarified.  “It will be nice to get him to meet people.”  She became slightly embarrassed on his behalf.  “He’s not great at socialising...” she suddenly felt very disloyal sharing that with someone she’d only just met.  Any other situation, Camille was sure Richard would dread being dragged into a room full of strangers, but this was different. These people were his peers, and it would recreate that atmosphere he missed from the banks of the Thames more closely. It almost seemed too good to be true! Though she didn’t truly think a marriage proposal would be on the cards immediately…but perhaps at least a dinner date?


	2. Chapter 2

“So...you are not going to believe what I have been up to!” She had breezed back into the office the next morning, coffee in hand, a small smile tugging on her lips. 

“Probably not, Camille.”  The smile disappeared.  He was in a worse mood than expected and hadn’t even bothered to look at her as she had come in.  She almost didn’t want to tell him.  Almost.  She tried again. 

“Aren’t you even going to ask me?”

“No,” he barked at her.  “Because Camille, if I asked you, that would insinuate that I might be marginally interested in your private life, and we have work.”  To his credit he thought that she was about to go off on a tangent involving her love life, and he was pretty sure that while he could tolerate that, he certainly didn’t want the details.  He never wanted the details.  Perhaps if he was more honest with himself he would have realised why.

She slammed down the extra coffee that she had bought for him.  Thankfully it had a lid on, but it did have the added bonus of getting his attention.  He sat staring wide eyed at her, waiting for her to continue, too surprised by her action to even pick her up for insubordination.   

She fixed him with a glare.  “You know, it would be nice if once, just once, you gave me a little bit of you precious time considering I gave up my free time last night for you...”

“You did?” He very nearly squeaked. Richard hadn’t been this intimidated by her since that time she gave him the dressing down on their first case together. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I mean, you did?” He repeated in a lower register.

“Yes, _I_ did,” her bad mood wasn’t going to dissipate that easily. “Because _I_ , unlike _you_ , actually have a desire to see the people around me be happy! And that means _I_ , unlike _you_ , will go out of my way to arrange for that to be the case! Which is what I was doing yesterday, when I convinced my mother against her better judgement to have a party at the bar so you can watch your precious boat race!” Okay, so maybe she was exaggerating the difficulty involved, but he didn’t need to know that…

“Oh, well that’s very...um...kind?”  He had no idea why it had come out as a question. He mentally prepared himself for another dressing down.

“Yes it _was_ kind.”  She was about to leave it, he was her boss after all.  She probably shouldn’t be as aggressive as she was being.  But then she lingered on the word kind.  Yes it was kind.  She. Was. Kind.  To him.  And he never noticed, took everything for granted.  And that pissed her off. 

“You know, I don’t know why I bother.  You don’t even care.  Do you know how long you spent yesterday going on about your stupid boat race?”  She stopped and he managed a shake of the head.  “An hour and a half.  You didn’t even stop to check if I was interested. And by the way, I think you’ll find _that_ had nothing to do with work, but you don’t hear me whining at you for it!”  She ignored the fact that she had been interested.  She was always interested by his stupid lectures.  “And so yes, I went to Maman, I asked her if we could use her bar for a party, I’ve got decorations, I’m trying my hardest to get it on TV, and I’ve even found people for you to watch it with.” 

That got his attention. 

“People?” He repeated, baffled. Saint Marie was not exactly full to the brim with Cambridge graduates as far as he was aware.

“Yes, there is a reunion of one of the colleges…um…” Her mind went blank. “Pommebrooke?” She tried.

He gave her a blank look, “There is no college called Pommebrooke, Camille.”

“Well something ending in brooke!” She snapped.

Richard thought about it for a moment, “Do you mean Pembrooke?”

“Yes!” She cried. “That one. So you’ll have a room of Cambridge fans to watch the race with as well.”

He was touched.  He wasn’t usually touched, but she had clearly gone out of her way for him.  His heart gave a little erratic jump as to the potential reason she was going out of her way for him, but him dismissed it immediately.  He also knew that he was defeated. He sat back in his chair.

“Thank you.” 

It was sincere, and as close to an apology as she was going to get.  She nodded her acceptance and there was a moment of calm between them. 

He cleared his throat.  “So these people.  Where did you find them?”

“In Maman’s bar.  They’re here for some sort of reunion.  He said something about blue t shirts?  Is that ok?”  He nodded. “Actually do you even own a t-shirt?” She queried.

He gave a small frown, “Not here, though I am sure I can find one before Saturday. I hope I can find the right shade.”

“Oh clothes shopping!” She cried, delighted. “You know I could help, right? Maybe find you some other more climate sensible clothes for work?”

“Camille....” he didn’t have the energy for another fight but didn’t want to start this again.  He needed a suit for work.  He wasn’t sure why she couldn’t understand that. 

She held up her hand.  “Fine.”  She had plenty of time to hatch a plan to get him something more comfortable.  Those daydreams of him taking off his tie and shirt loomed dangerously over her again.  “Just t shirts.”  And trousers, and shirts and lightweight suits, she mentally added.  The list was endless. 

“I hardly think I need your help to find a t-shirt.” He tried to make it sound like a dismissal, but Camille wasn’t having any of it.

“Oh really?” She raised a single eyebrow. “Name one store on Saint Marie that sells men’s t-shirts.”

Richard’s mind went blank. Of course he _had_ visited men’s clothing outlets since his arrival, but to buy things like socks and underwear. And he couldn’t recall if any of them sold t-shirts, or what any of them were called. Then he hit on an idea, “There are stalls on the market!”

“Oh yes,” Camille’s tone was casual – which Richard instantly took as a warning. “Would that be Billy’s stall that specialises in synthetic knock offs that don’t last a week, or Jamal’s collection of slogan t-shirts, including some that promote the legalisation of certain illicit drugs?”

“Well if you’re not doing anything then I suppose you can come along.”  He tried to sound as offhand as possible.  “But I really don’t need your help to buy clothes – I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself!”  She quirked an eyebrow that said it all: heatstroke, his weird predilection for ham sandwiches which meant his was perpetually hungry, and lack of sleep due to his strange night attire.  He definitely couldn’t look after himself. 

“Anyway – I had a Frankie says relax t shirt when I was younger.”   She choked on laughter. 

“You didn’t know what it meant, did you?” She guessed instantly – and correctly. He didn’t answer, which she took as confirmation of her being right and caused another fit of giggles. When she had calmed down, she said, “Are we going then?”

“What, now?” He asked, surprised. “We’ve only just gotten into work!”

She waved a hand dismissively, “Oh, Dwayne and Fidel will cover – they’ll be back from patrol in a minute. We are both owed a day in lieu anyway from working the bank holiday, and they can call if anything urgent comes up.”

“But what if the Commissioner sees us?”

“We will tell him we are doing undercover work looking for shoplifters,” Camille said smoothly, and Richard suspected it was a lie she may have used before. “Besides, if we wait until the end of the day we won’t have much time before the shops close!” Richard personally saw this as an advantage – it would encourage shopping efficiently.

Either way, he didn’t see that he had that much choice. 

 

* * *

 

It was worse than he could possibly have imagined.  If the first hour had been slow then the second was interminable.  And he still hadn’t found anything to wear.  He had been dragged from every men’s store on the island.  Or so he thought. And every time he thought they had been close to making a decision she had decided that the fit was wrong or the colour wasn’t quite right. 

In truth Camille was just enjoying making him take his suit and tie off repeatedly.  And seeing him in a t shirt.  And the more hot and bothered he got, and he was very hot and bothered, the more he began to think that putting all of his clothes back on might not be the best idea.  After all, he was just going to take them off again.  She watched as he first lost the jacket, then the tie, and wished that the one top button that was undone would magically turn into two.

“Oh my God!” She cried now, winding her way through Saint Marie’s one and only and very tiny department store. “These are perfect!”

Richard felt a sudden surge of hope – it was the most positive thing she had said all day and it must surely mean his ordeal was nearly at an end. But then he saw what she was holding – not a t shirt for him, but a pair of rather high heels. In the Cambridge colours.

“They are the _exact_ right shade,” she enthused. “It’s destiny!”

“Don’t you think that they’re a little too small for me Camille?” he asked sardonically. 

She ignored him, she wasn’t going to let him ruin this moment, this glorious moment of finding _the_ most beautiful pair of shoes.  “Perhaps, but don’t you think they are perfect for me?” 

Checking the bottom of the shoe, she saw that they were the right size and kicked off her own replacing them with the new objects of her affection.  Richard couldn’t help but notice the dark shade of her nail varnish painted delicately on her toes and the line her arches as he traced his eyes up to her ankles.  She paraded up and down in front of him and his eyes travelled still higher tracing the outline of her calves.  He’d never really spent much time admiring her legs...

He blinked heavily, effectively clearing his thoughts.

“Aren’t they beautiful?”

“I, er, don’t really have an opinion on shoes,” he said. For him, it was showing remarkable tolerance – if he hadn’t been so distracted by her legs moments beforehand he probably would have said something much crosser.

She did the eyebrow raising thing – Richard began to wonder if he would ever get through a day again without her doing that. “Really?” She said in a teasing tone. “Because it seemed to _me_ that you were paying them an awful lot of attention a moment ago.”

Richard felt the colour rising in his cheeks – she had noticed, of course she had, she was a detective – being observant was part of the job description. Knowing denial was useful he cleared his throat awkwardly and said, “They don’t, um, look unattractive on you.” _They don’t look unattractive on you_? What was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he have just said that, yes, they did look rather nice on her and she should buy them and wear them. Preferably with a skirt…ok perhaps adding that last bit could have landed him with a sexual harassment claim.

“Maybe I should buy them then,” she teased.  “I could wear them on Saturday to show my support for Cambridge...and they’re not that expensive.” Richard shrugged his indifference, it was of no consequence to him whether she bought the shoes or not, although if she did he sincerely hoped that she did wear them on Saturday.  It had nothing to do with the fact that he would be able to surreptitiously check out her legs unobserved in an otherwise packed bar, definitely not.  More to do with the fact that if a woman chose to buy shoes for a particular occasion then she should wear them for that occasion.  Otherwise it was a waste of money.  His eye caught the sticker on the bottom as he turned to survey the shop. 

He exploded before he could stop himself.  “You can’t buy those – they’re far too expensive!”

Camille gave him a bemused look, “Richard I have bought shoes far more expensive than these…not to mention the bags.” He continued to look shock, and she rolled her eyes. “It’s called disposable income, Richard! A girl has to treat herself occasionally. Surely you have something you spend left over wages on?”

“No,” he said quite firmly. “I put it in the bank.” Then, realising how sad that made him sound, he added, “Though sometimes I might buy some books…” Yeah, that really improved his image.

“Well, shoes are my books,” she said.

“But all that money for shoes for one event!” He cried as she began to make her way towards the till, holding the shoes by their straps.

She called over her shoulder, “Well I’ll just have to make sure I have _other_ occasions to wear them!”

His heart skipped a beat before he realised that she wasn’t necessarily talking about an occasion he would be present at.  She probably had hundreds of men lining up to take her out.  All of whom spent their money on doing fun things like jet skiing or scuba diving, or other manly things.  Not books.  Come to think of it, Richard thought, had they been here, they would probably have offered to buy the shoes for Camille. 

He wished very hard, and not for the first time, that he could be one of those men.  The type of man that women didn’t laugh at or worse, pity.  Someone confident enough to take a woman like Camille out on a date.

She had stopped by a rack of t shirts and was now holding the shoes up to the rails, checking the colours with a either a furrowed brow or nod of her head, efficiently moving through them. 

“You know we might have to buy a white t-shirt and dye it,” she was saying now, moving on from that rack to another. “Perhaps we could dye some of your shirts at the same time, so you have something different to wear for once.”

“There isn’t anything wrong with white shirts,” he said grumpily.

“Ah ha!” She cried, pulling not a t-shirt but a polo shirt from the rack. It was a pretty good match, though as she contemplated she said, “Oh I don’t know…maybe this one has too much green in it.”

Richard grabbed it from her hands, “Or maybe it is just fine!”

He tried to just go pay for it but she cried, “Wait, you have to try it on first!”

“No, no I don’t.” He knew what size he was and could read the label after all. He ignored her muttering and just paid for the damn thing. The assistant went to put it in the bag, but he had to take it off her and re-fold it. Honestly, the way she had done it originally had been entirely unacceptable.

“Well,” she said, when he returned with his polo shirt neatly packaged. “I suppose now we have more time to find a bag.”

“A bag?”

“Yes, to go with the shoes.”

Richard made a great show of looking at his watch, “Oh, would you look at the time!” He cried, completely failing to fool her – she had heard it all before. “I must dash – I have to feed Harry. He, um, chews on wires if I leave him waiting too long!

Thanks for all your help today though, really, um, helpful.”  He held up the bag in triumph, “and you know, great to have something new,” even if it did take the best part of two hours to achieve he added mentally.  She bit back a smile as he hurried out of the shop, weaving out of the way of a frustrated mother with toddler and almost careering into a mannequin.  He was too embarrassed to turn around and wave. 


	3. Chapter 3

She knew it was early.  Not early enough to catch him in his pyjamas, something that had become one of her favourite pastimes recently, but certainly too early to claim that she was here to drive him to the boat race party.  The land rover stopped with a jolt in a cloud of sand as she put the handbrake on with a ratcheted howl.  Gently lifting herself out of the car she felt her skin detach from the plastic seat cover with a sucking noise, she slightly regretted her decision to wear shorts, it was hardly the most attractive noise in the world. 

She had driven bare foot rather than bother to put her shoes on.  It meant that she would bring sand into his bungalow but it couldn’t be helped.  She wasn’t going to wear her new heels on the beach.  They would be ruined. 

Camille retrieved the bag from the passenger seat and prepared herself for a fight. Perhaps she shouldn’t have done it – if he got grumpy (well, that was guaranteed, perhaps she should say _really_ grumpy) it could put a dampener on the whole day. But she knew _exactly_ what he was going to end up wearing and he was going to stick out. So she was doing him a favour, really. It wasn’t that she was trying to change him. Because that would be pointless, and ridiculous, and certainly not something she had been marginally successful at over the last year. But then again those changes that had occurred in Richard – they weren’t real, true changes. No, she, Dwayne and Fidel – even her mother to a certain extent – had just been successful at getting the _real_ Richard to reveal himself on occasion, instead of the Detective Inspector character he liked to hide behind 24 hours a day.

Her hesitation had given him time to come out onto the veranda and frown at her, “You are rather early? I thought lunch wasn’t being served until one?”

“I thought you might like some company...” his eyebrows raised first in confusion then in acknowledgement and he motioned for her to take a seat outside.  She did as indicated.  Richard returned with a beer and watched her stretch out in the heat.  Those damn legs were on display again and he watched as she flexed her toes and arched her feet.  He tried to calm himself by thinking about the sand, immeasurable amount of sand that would invariably end up in his house, then lost control of his thoughts again as he imagined the reasons why she might be in his home at all.  He went to tug at his collar only to remember that he was wearing a polo shirt.  He felt decidedly uncomfortable. 

If she noticed the motion then she didn’t comment on it but instead held her hand out for the beer and waited as he settled comfortably next to her.

“I like it.”  He looked expectantly at her.  “The new shirt.  It suits you.”      

“Um, thank you?” Richard said, clearly unsure on how to accept a compliment about the way he looked. “Aren’t you going to wear your shoes?”

“I will do later,” she explained, before turning the conversation back to his outfit. “You know,” she said, placing down the beer and leaning forward. “Those trousers are a bit smart for the shirt.”

He shrugged, “Well it is these or my pyjama bottoms, which I rather think  would be classified as too casual.”

“Or,” she said, drawing the word out. “You could wear something more casual, like, say, a pair of chinos?”

“I don’t own a pair of chinos.” She just levelled a gaze at him, and suddenly Richard realised that he did own a pair – and that was what was in the bag, and why she was here so early.

“No.”  He could tell that she was gearing up for a fight so he fired a warning shot across her bows in his most authoritative voice.  “Camille...”  He wasn’t sure how much effort to put into arguing with her.  He was pretty sure that he would lose, it just depended on how much time he wanted to waste getting to that conclusion. 

“They’re just chinos Richard.”

“I don’t care if they’re just chinos, I’m not wearing them.”  His voice brooked no room for discussion. 

But that was before she played her wild card. “Then I’m cancelling your party,” she said smugly. 

He wasn’t quite sure when it became ok for Camille to treat him like a six year old, or when she managed to have such a hold over him.  He also had a good mind to tell her that he didn’t care and to kick her off his veranda.  But he did care.  It was Cambridge.  It was home.  It was the BBC, and it was a party with people who might at least understand him.

“You are being entirely unreasonable.”

“No, it is you who is being unreasonable,” she said firmly. “As you are nearly all of the time – which is why I resorted to such drastic tactics so early. Will you at least look at them?”

His stubborn, petulant side still wanted to shout no at her, and storm off into his shack. But he controlled it, and instead with a tight nod he roughly grabbed the bag from her and removed the trousers. Richard had never actually told Camille his size, there was a good chance whatever she had bought wouldn’t even fit. With glee he saw that was exactly the case, “Camille these are like six sizes to big!” Then his pleasure turned to hurt, he knew the trousers he had brought from the UK were a little tighter than they used to be, but he hadn’t thought he had put on _that_ much weight.

She made an aggravated noise, shaking her head, “No, they aren’t, that is the European size. It is a UK 32.” Which was exactly his size, surprise must have shown on his face at that because she added, “I’ve always been very good at judging peoples…measurements.” Richard felt the choice of word was a deliberate attempt to make him blush, and it worked.

“I don’t understand why you think I need these anyway?”

“Why?  Because Richard you have been here for a year and I have only ever seen you wear a suit or your pyjamas.  Do you know how ridiculous that is?”

He knew exactly how ridiculous it was.  Knew exactly how ridiculous he was.  He had been told by too many women too many times. 

She could see that she had hurt him.  “You’re not ridiculous.” The wrinkled lip he offered her in return told her that he didn’t really believe her.  “It’s just, you need to relax.”  He looked as though he was about to tell her that he was more than capable of relaxing in his suit, when she held up her hands.  “No you can’t.  And that’s why you need some new clothes.  Now go and try them on.”

He stormed off into the bathroom.    

They fit perfectly. Looking down they seemed to look fine as well. Richard wasn’t willing to leave the bathroom to look in the mirror just yet, because he knew Camille would start harassing him the moment he stepped out. In truth he knew there wasn’t going to be anything wrong with them at all – he even owned similar trousers, but they were in the UK. He just objected to being _shopped_ for – and it was such a maternal thing to do. Yes, that was always going to be how Camille thought of him wasn’t it? A child to cajole into behaving.

With a huff, he exited the bathroom and only allowed himself a sideways glance to confirm they looked fine – because he knew he would have to wear them no matter what.

What he didn’t bank on was Camille’s appreciative glance at him as he flounced, yes flounced, back on to the veranda.  He looked good.  He was a moron, and an idiot, and juvenile and argumentative but he looked good.  She was expecting him to look different, after a year of wearing the same thing, he would have had to look different.  But they really suited him. 

“Are you coming?”  He was shouting at her from the veranda, raising his voice when she was perfectly capable of hearing him because he was only 7 feet away from her.

He was pouting.  He had seen her look at him and it was definitely maternal. A sort of look of pride had crossed her face before he had strode past her.  The pout gave way to chewed lips as he mulled over the way that her pride made him feel.  Small, mainly.  And insignificant.  He wished again for the confidence to tell her that he didn’t need her trousers, or her shopping, that he just wanted to be left alone.  But he wasn’t even sure if he believed that anymore.  He didn’t want her to leave him alone.  He just wanted her to accept him for who he was.  But he didn’t think that was going to happen any time soon.  This latest present proved it.

“Yes, yes,” Camille said. She should know by now that a simple ‘thank you’ was not going to be forthcoming. His bad mood rolled off him in waves as they walked towards the car and she wondered if it was all worth it. Unable to stand him sitting sullen next to her, she asked the one question she knew would get him talking, “So what are Cambridge’s chances today?”

Let the lecture begin…


	4. Chapter 4

Camille had tried not to speed on her way to La Kaz, she really had, but Richard had taken the opportunity presented to him to teach her a lesson.  His lecture had been even more boring than usual and he was revelling in it, stopping regularly to make sure that he had her undivided attention, so that she didn’t even have the opportunity to daydream.  The car came to a halt with a jerk, Richard’s body jolting forward.  He scowled at her and she gave a small satisfied smile disguised as an apology at the payback for his lecture. 

His scowl faded as he took in the entrance to the bar.  It was decorated with light and dark blue paper streamers, hanging from the door frame, dancing gently in the slight breeze.  A half smile appeared in its place.  He was pretty sure he should say something to Camille, even to acknowledge what she had done, but he wasn’t sure what. 

He realised he’d been quiet for some time when she sighed and said, “shall we go in?”

“Right, um, yes,” the moment had passed – perhaps there would be an opportunity later to thank her properly.  His mind temporarily leapt to ways he could thank her that wouldn’t be conducive to their working relationship, and he pushed them hastily aside. 

“Richard!” Catherine cried as she brushed past him carrying a tray laden rather heavily with…blue cheeses? Well, it wasn’t exactly usual, but he supposed it fit with the general theme. Catherine seemed to in a bit of a rush trying to put the final touches to things. “I’d get you some tea but I am a tad busy right now!”

He leant slightly to the side and glanced into the kitchen, where several lovely and familiar smells were originating. He also spotted his – well, not his but Catherine’s, tea set on the counter and offered, “I could just make my own…”

“Yes, yes!” She said, shooing him away with a wave of a – blue, naturally – napkin.

Camille had made her way over to the TV set. “Um, do you want anything to drink?” He asked – deciding he might as well play bartender for everyone. Camille looked up from frowning slightly at the remote to give him a brief smile and request a complicated sounding cocktail.  She then laughed at the look of alarm on his face and changed the order to mango juice, something he was capable of handling.

Once Richard was in the kitchen and out of ear shot, Camille called to her mother, “We did get the BBC tuned in last night, didn’t we _Maman_?” She had to make an effort to keep the concern out of her tone.

“Of course!”  Catherine’s usual sing song voice sounded clearly through the bar and Camille winced at the thought that Richard might overhear them and think that they hadn’t been able to achieve the final hurdle.  She should probably turn it on to double check.  Aiming the remote at the television the picture or some semblance of the picture flickered to life.  It waved in and out of focus, fuzzy lines marring the screen and Camille felt her stomach clench in panic.  _Not now.  Please not now._

“Do you want ice?” Richard’s voice came from the kitchen.

“Yes!” Desperate to keep him in there longer she shouted, “Um, and some slices of lime-“ she wasn’t sure if lime went with mango but whatever. “And, um, one of those little umbrellas?”

“You don’t ask for much, do you?” came the sarcastic response. “Tell me, what did your last slave die of?  Any idea where I can find any of those things?”

“Um, no sorry!” She said as she turned the aerial 45 degrees and jabbed the re-tune button. “Just look in the cupboards!” He huffed, but the sound of rummaging from the kitchen confirmed he was doing what she asked. Camille held her breath as a list of stations detected appeared on the screen – she saw BBC1 was there, but what would the picture quality be like?

Richard appeared by her side just as the television finished the re-tune and flicked to the first channel on the list. “That is the wrong one,” he stated obviously. Camille crossed her fingers and entered the digits for BBC1 – YES! It took all her effort not to do a little happy dance when the picture and sound came on.

“Oh that is a better picture than I expected,” Richard said mildly.

“Well we aim to please.”

He was giving her that look again.  That look that made her feel for a split second that she was the only woman in the world.  Then it was gone.  Hidden by his inability to thank her properly for the effort she had gone to and embarrassment as his stomach gave a groan.  _Why did it always have to do that!_

She laughed and asked, “Lunch?”  He nodded his assent and they wound their way through the chairs and decorations to sit on the veranda.  She was about to take a seat in the sunshine when she realised that he would probably prefer the shade and changed her mind at the last minute.  A move that was completely missed by Richard who was still trying to think of a way to thank Camille without making him look too desperate.

Looking around he could see that the bar really had been decorated perfectly.  The two blues hung side by side from the ceiling, in streamers and banners, twisting and turning, catching the light. They were also next to each other on the tables in the different coloured napkins that they had somehow found.  His sudden pang of homesickness that he felt was immediately tempered by the fact that had he been at home he would probably be at the Thames on his own.  _Certainly not with a beautiful woman_ , he reminded himself, _despite_ _her infuriating nature_.  It suddenly mattered less that he had no chance with her.  At least she wanted his company, which was a damn sight more than anyone back in London.   

“So when are the rest of the crowd arriving?” He asked conversationally.

“Um, I’m not sure… _Maman_? Are the Pembroke lot coming for the lunch?”

“Yes!” She said as she emerged from the kitchen with a plate of sausages. Richard perked up – they were proper ‘bangers’ as he would call them, Catherine had purchased a British brand especially. She placed them next to a tray of buns. “Hence the masses of food! I worked it all out with them a couple of days ago. They should be here any minute.”

No sooner had Catherine uttered these words when the voice of a large number of men could be heard approaching the bar. They were backlit, and Richard squinted into the light, curious about what year this lot had graduated. If some were history majors he might even know a few. But then, as they entered shade and he could finally see them clearly, something became clear…they were wearing the wrong shade of blue.

“Camille, you did say they were from Pembroke, Cambridge, right?”

Camille bit her lip as she took in the men, “Um, it was definitely _Pembroke_. I mean, there isn’t another one is there?”

“Yes,” Richard bit back. “In _Oxford_.” He squeezed his eyes very tight and hoped that when he opened them that they would no longer be there.  That it would just be him.  Actually, if he was wishing for something then they wouldn’t just not be there.  He would be at home.  Without any of this fuss.  He wouldn’t even be at the Thames, just sitting in his chair at home.  In England.  Life would be so much less complicated. 

He opened one eye very slowly and saw that they were still there.  Bugger.

Camille was still hiding behind her menu.  As she lowered it slowly her unruly curls, forehead and finally her big brown eyes came into view.  Big wide brown eyes.  He misread her disappointment for guilt.

“Richard, I didn’t know, I swear!”

He really wanted to throw a hissy fit.  But the idea that she might still somehow cancel the party loomed large for him.  So what that there was an Oxford reunion here?  In days gone by there had always been a bit of friendly competition on the banks of the Thames hadn’t there?  And he’d never got in the way of a bit of friendly rivalry.  He would be magnanimous – he was the reason the party existed after all, they had to give him some credit for that.

He managed to pull himself together.

The men spotted him and the noise level increased exponentially. “Catherine!” One of them cried – Richard assumed the one who had been arranging this. “You arranged for us to have somebody to gloat over when Oxford wins!” He grabbed her and kissed her firmly on both cheeks – Catherine took it in her stride and batted them away.

“It wouldn’t be the same without seeing the distraught face of a Cambridge supporter or two,” another agreed cheerfully, winking at Richard in a manner he considered quite forward.

“And now little Lottie has somebody to sulk with!”

“I think you’ll find that’s share the Champagne with,” Richard heard a female voice say, though he couldn’t see who it belonged to. And then she appeared, a petite thing elbowing her way through the men, her long red hair unfortunately clashing somewhat with her sundress in… _Cambridge colours_! “Thank _goodness_!” She said vehemently, wiping a few strands of damp hair off her face. The men were all crowded round the bar now, trying to get the drink orders in, and those that weren’t were devouring the sausages. “I thought I would be the only one. Charlotte Salter – and since you are my new best friend it would be terribly good if I could know your name?” Her accent sounded Borders to Richard, and it was one that he had always found attractive, though he wasn’t going to tell her that.

“Um, Richard.”

She mimicked him.  “Um Richard?”   She dazzled him with a smile to let him know that she was joking.  “Nice to meet you!”  She flung herself down in the chair next to him and Camille had to hide her locked jaw behind her menu again briefly before she too was targeted by the whirlwind of charm that was Charlotte.

“Are you Cambridge too?”  For the first time in her life Camille was actually embarrassed of her island education.  She tried to bluff her way out with defiance. 

“No, I grew up here.”  On any other woman her tone that screamed “you got a problem with that?” would have sent alarm bells ringing and resulted in them quickly vacating the recently employed chair.  Not so on Charlotte. 

“Oh my God you are so lucky!  What an amazing place to grow up.  The island is so beautiful, I’ve spent the entire time we’ve been here exploring.   The rainforest is incredible too, I can’t believe there’s so much of it left.”  At this, Camille shot Richard a look, which he modestly ignored.  “The animals, oh wow!”  She came screeching to a halt.  “I’m sorry I’m talking too much aren’t I?  I talk when I’m nervous.  Sorry.”

In light of such a devastating assault Camille had been completely disarmed.  Anyone that loved the island as much as Charlotte clearly did was ok in her book.  She leant across the table holding out her hand as an introduction.  “Camille.”

It was gratefully taken.  “Charlotte.”

“So how did you have the misfortune to end up with that lot?” Richard said, nodding towards the men who were keeping Catherine on her toes.

“Oh my brother is in there somewhere,” she said flapping a hand. She turned to examine the group, squinting, and then spotted him. “Yes, he is the one with a sun burn that could win a competition. Idiot didn’t put any cream on. He was supposed to bring his girlfriend but they broke up and the ticket was going spare. Not one to turn down a free holiday, me!”

“Oh,” Camille said. “I’m sorry for your brother.”

“Don’t worry, given his flirtations with every other woman on the island I am pretty sure he is over her. And it was her loss, not his anyway,” Clearly she was fond of her brother. “Oxford is the family tradition, but I decided to go to Cambridge.”

“Why?” Camille asked, from what little research she had done they had both seemed pretty similar. Though she knew saying that in front of Richard would have led to disownment.

“Because it’s better,” Richard and Charlotte said simultaneously. There was a beat before they both laughed.

“What college did you go to?” Charlotte asked Richard now.

“Peterhouse.”

Richard had intended to ask her the same but before he could she squealed, “Me too!” Then, embarrassed by her giddiness, cleared her throat and asked more normally, “I graduated in 1996.”

“Few years after me,” he said, finding himself unwilling to give away his age with the exact date.

“How many years?”  He’d almost forgotten that Camille was there.  He narrowed his eyes at her by way of a response to her teasing tone.

“What did you study?”  Charlotte had turned her chair towards him, her bright eyes fixated on him and Camille was interested to note that since the first time she had met him he didn’t seem awkward with a woman. 

“History.”

“Me too! What did you specialise in?”

“The evolvement of Cathedral building in Medieval England.” 

She snorted and he couldn’t for the life of him work out what was so funny.  “Sorry, it’s just so random!”  He tried to interject, but she stopped him, “oh wow - _Pillars of the Earth_ must have really annoyed you!”  Camille was lost. She had no idea what Pillars of the Earth was, she was too busy trying not to look too surprised at his specialism.  It was so typically him. 

“It’s really not that...”

She was laughing again, “Oh wow and the sex scenes.  They were horrific.”

Richard, to Camille’s complete surprise, actually nodded in agreement. She would have expected him to loudly change the topic or suddenly declare he had to go…anywhere but here. “Yeah I had to stop reading it when I was on the tube.”

“Fear somebody else would read it over your shoulder?” She said, with a knowing look.

“Yup.”

“I’ll assume you didn’t watch the TV adaption then?”

“No,” Richard said. “Though I imagine it was mildly pornographic…”

“Oh it was hardly _Games of Thrones_ ,” This was clearly a comparison to something Richard was meant to have heard of – but he had no clue what she was talking about. Not wanting to reveal his ignorance he just nodded.

“So how about you?  What did you study?”

“Oh I’m afraid it was a bit more mainstream than Cathedral building in Medieval England.”  She laughed at him again. And Camille felt a jab of annoyance shoot through her.  Laughing at Richard was her domain.  Charlotte exhaled sharply in order to get her giggles under control, then became serious.  “The strategic warfare manoeuvres of the Mongols”

Richard gave one short burst of incredulous laughter.  “A bit more mainstream?”

“Well it’s certainly more interesting,” she said, a little hurt. 

The sound of rowdy carousing came from the bar again, accompanied by the occasional high pitched scream which apparently came from a man. 

“My brother,” Charlotte said by way of explanation.  “They keep prodding his sun burn.”  Richard shot a glance at her brother’s hair, then hers.  Auburn hair, and in Charlotte’s case beautiful auburn hair, like fire, he thought idly.  He hadn’t seen anything like it for a while.  Not since...he checked himself.  It didn’t do to dwell on past victims of their cases.  She caught him looking. 

“Factor 50 in case you’re wondering.  Otherwise this,” she indicated her skin. “Looks like that burger the proprietor is currently barbequing.”  She made this last comment to Camille.  “Now,” she said, turning back to Richard. “You look like a Footlights man to me…”

The two began to discuss various aspects of life at Cambridge, and Camille was feeling decidedly left out of the conversation.  It wasn’t usual that she felt out of her depth, but she suddenly got the impression that perhaps Richard didn’t enjoy talking to her because she wasn’t intelligent enough for him.  After all, this girl Charlotte, she spat the name out in her thoughts, had come along and managed to get him to open up in the space of 5 minutes.  And the only thing they seemed to have in common was the fact that they both went to the same university. 

Richard’s stomach rumbled again and Camille used it as an opportunity to get away. 

“Oh for heaven’s sake!” Camille pushed her chair away angrily, “I’ll get you a burger.”

She was two steps from the table when Richard called after her, “Camille?”  She turned, hoping that he was going to tell her not to go, but instead all he managed was “could you get Charlotte one too?” He looked to her by way of confirmation.

“Oh thank you, yes please,” Charlotte called after her.  Defeated, Camille gritted her teeth, grinned and disappeared into the kitchen. 

Camille hadn’t said anything because she thought she might not be capable of saying something nice. Having put in her order (she knew how Richard liked his burgers, not that he would probably notice) she stayed put for a moment and watched the pair of them. It was embarrassing really, the way he was awkwardly flirting with a girl he had only just met just because she went to Cambridge. Though Camille supposed she was rather pretty as well, if pale. Though of course, Richard was rather pale…they were probably bonding over sun cream brands at this very moment.

A burst of laughter rose from their table – one of the men from the Oxford lot elbowed her and said _sotto_ _voce_ , “Well it looks like somebody might get lucky even if Cambridge doesn’t!”

She gave him what she thought was a happy smile, not realising the grimace that had appeared on her face.  The thought made Camille feel a bit sick – but she supposed she should be happy for Richard. It was so rare to see him socialising and yet here he was – communicating with an actual stranger. She just wished it wasn’t an attractive, intelligent female stranger.  

 

* * *

 

“Ohhh, you’re in trouble,” Charlotte said at the table, when Camille was out of ear shot. “You know at school I was _always_ being accused of trying steal boys off people – but I never was! I think I just talk to men as easily as I do women.”

“Stealing…? What?”  Richard was now completely lost.  Why women couldn’t stick to normal subjects of conversation was completely beyond him.  He’d been rather enjoying their history chat.

“You know, women always get the wrong idea about that sort of thing.  I should really go and apologise and tell her that I’ve got no interest in you.”

“Excuse me?”

Charlotte misread his confusion over the fact that she thought he and Camille were together for hurt at an unintended insult. She tried to backtrack quickly.  “Oh, I mean, not that you’re not lovely.  You are.  Very lovely.  It’s just, there’s this guy, and...” she caught the look on his face.  “You’re not interested.  It’s fine.”

“Um.   No.  Sorry, it’s just that you think we’re together?”

She caught on immediately.  “Oh I just assumed, the way you are together.”  She paused.  “You mean you aren’t together?”

Richard slowly shook his head, his heart pounding.  “She’s my Detective Sergeant,” he hoped that his meaning was clear.  “I’m her boss,” he added for clarification. 

She digested this.  “So you don’t fancy her...”  Richard choked on the drink that he had just taken a sip of.  “Oh, you do fancy her.”

“I didn’t say that!” He said, suddenly laughing a little hysterically. Charlotte joined in, but it was obvious she was starting to think he was a bit odd. Richard risked a quick glance in Camille’s direction and noticed she was observing them – oh God he hoped she hadn’t been lip reading, she’d been practising recently.

“I can’t help but note you are choosing to neither confirm nor deny it,” Charlotte said with a little wink. “But perhaps that is enough said. I can see it is making you uncomfortable – oh is it like forbidden then? That’s exciting, no wait, that would be awful. I’ll shut up now.”

Little did Charlotte know that he had spent an awful lot of time considering if it was, as she put it, ‘forbidden love’. Relationships between police officers were common in the UK, even between different ranks. Though ones in a direct chain of command weren’t exactly encouraged, ways around it were found. When you worked a job with stupid hours and that tended to make you obsessive, often the only people you could truly bond with were your colleagues (or others from the emergency services)-  so the police just made it work. But Saint Marie was a very different kettle of fish – and they weren’t exactly overflowing with Detective Inspectors or other options for Camille to report too. In his weak moments, Richard liked to imagine there would be a work around here as well – but what he didn’t do was spent time considering _what_ that work around would be. Why, what would the point be? “She can do better than me,” his last thought ended up being uttered aloud, and to his embarrassment he found himself the recipient of a sympathetic look from Charlotte.

“I think you’ll find _she_ gets to decide that,” she said rather firmly.

He muttered, “I’m pretty sure she’s already made up her mind.”  He locked his jaw.  “Look, can we just leave it.  I don’t really want to talk about it.”

“Because you’d prefer to pretend you don’t have feelings for her?”

“I don’t...!” He almost shouted the beginning, then seemed to realise he was about to abuse a near total stranger.  He tried again several decibels lower.  “I don’t have feelings for her.”

“Ok, so you can pretend that she doesn’t have feelings for you...?” that caught his attention.

He tried a casual question, judging by the look on Charlotte’s face he had failed stupendously.  “What, um...what makes you think that she might have feelings for me?”

“Other than the look of pure evil she is currently shooting me?”  Richard risked a look at her. 

“That’s the way she normally looks.”  He felt the need to explain. “She’s always angry, usually with me.  It’s just a thing that she does.”

“Probably frustration,” Charlotte said, sounding certain. “That you don’t pay any attention to her – or do for the wrong reasons. Believe you me, unrequited love is a horrible thing to have to endure.” She seemed to realise the implications of what she had said and added, “I might not be right. Oh God, you’ve known me 10 minutes and I am going to be responsible for ruining your working relationship, aren’t I?”

“Believe me, it is already pretty complicated.” She was going to ask more, Richard could tell, but he flapped a hand at her as Camille was heading their way with the burgers.

“What is pretty complicated?” She asked, feigning cheerfulness as she sat down with them. She had come to the decision walking back to them to be polite and charming for the moment. If her mother saw her sulking she’d never hear the end of it for one thing – and there would be plenty of opportunity to punish Richard later for ignoring her in favour of some stranger after all she had done for him.

“The conclusions of the arson investigation into the fire at York Minster in 1984,” Charlotte supplied quickly.

Camille noted Richard looked a little surprised by this – and was immediately suspicious, “Isn’t that history a little recent for you?”

“Well we were discussing the replacement of original features with those designed to improve fire tolerance and if this ruins the character of buildings,” Charlotte said smoothly. It was a lie, but it was a good one, and Camille knew she’d never find out what they had really been discussing. So be it. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy boat race day!

She watched him as he ate his burger.  Watched him savour every mouthful with his beer, juice running down over his fingers and into his palm, watched the look of utter delight that she hadn’t seen since they had last eaten roast beef together all those months ago.  She wondered what it would be like to see him so happy every day.  Mostly she was able to watch him because the television had been switched on to a great cheer from the crowd that had now gathered and Richard was absorbed with the build-up – except for when he was looking at her. Richard had starting glancing her way since she had returned, occasionally offering a little half smile. Camille didn’t know what had brought on this increased interest in her but she wasn’t complaining. Perhaps it has finally occurred to him just how much work she had put into the party. On the other hand, the knowing looks Charlotte kept sending her way were annoying, because she had no idea what they were about.   

It was almost time.  She had never known anything like it, the excitement, the apprehension, the camaraderie and the competition.  The Oxford graduates had increased their catcalling to titanic levels, Richard for the most part had ignored it, but Charlotte was giving as good as she got. 

“Yeah, at least we don’t try and sink our competitors!!”

“Give it up Lottie, that was over 10 years ago!” replied her brother, “and an accident!” chimed in another, “but congratulations on being the only team to have actually sunk!” shouted a third.  The last comment gained the most laughs and Lottie sat down, suitably stung. 

The tension was palpable.  The start seemed to go on forever, the monotonous commentary, the constant lining up.  She had no idea what was going on, other than the fact that there were steady calls of cheat going on between the two teams now. 

And finally they were off!  There was another rousing cheer and she was amazed to see Richard thump his near empty bottle on the table and roar “Come on Cambridge” at the television, which promptly repaid his allegiance by going blank. 

It wasn’t his fault – he was too far away from the television for his actions to have possibly knocked out the signal – and yet they had coincided perfectly. Every person in the bar was staring at the screen in horror – it displayed a blank screen with a small message in French informing them there was not enough signal to display the channel. Slowly, almost as one, the Oxford lot turned around to glare at Richard. Charlotte, to her credit, realised that it wasn’t his fault stared resolutely back. They were being as badly affected as the Oxford reunion after all.

Camille really felt for Richard now, and she felt a little guilty as well – she knew how precarious the signal was but had been too proud of her little party to warn them this might happen. But there was still time – she surged to her feet declaring, “I can fix it!”

A few nights before, Camille had spent quite a lot of time experimenting with the aerial in different positions to see which gave the best (and most reliable) signal. Actually having the aerial up high – achieved by her standing on the bar – had been best, but she and her mother had been unable to think of a way to secure it into that position. Camille climbed up onto the bar now, with an eager Oxford graduate giving her an entirely unnecessary boost probably designed to cop a feel, and got them to pass the aerial to her whilst she instructed her mother to hit the retune button.

The entire bar held its breath.  30% retuned, 40, 45...the television took a break and the tension became too much for one Oxford graduate who shouted a frustrated “come on!” at the television.  It had the effect of continuing the retuning process.  50%, 60%, the horizontal bar on the screen filled agonizingly slowly as Camille began to wonder just how much of the race they were actually missing.  The television seemed to hover on a tantalizing 99% for longer than it should toying with everyone’s emotions before Camille was able to select BBC1.  The channel flickered for a moment before the screen came back into glorious focus. 

“Yes!”  Just hearing Richard’s cry of relief and excitement was enough for her.  She stretched a little closer to the ceiling to ensure that the reception didn’t suddenly give out of her again, gently shaking loose the helpful hand that was still placed at the top of her thigh, he was definitely trying to cop a feel.

The bar erupted again, everyone’s thoughts channelled towards the television.  Everyone’s except Richard, who sent her a quick and very grateful look.  She couldn’t help but notice that his eyes lingered on her legs, she knew that the shoes had been a good buy.

They’d lost five minutes of the race. Camille suddenly realised that she may be stuck in this somewhat awkward position for another 15 or more…she hoped this was one of the years the race was over sooner rather than later. Or perhaps one of them would sink. At least she was wearing shorts so nobody could look up her skirt whilst she was stuck up here.

Camille wasn’t familiar enough with the route to know what stage they were at. What she _could_ tell is that it was pretty damn close at the moment, and with neither team having a clear lead the excitement in the room only seemed to get more extreme. 

“Make a break!  Make a breaaaaaakkkkkkkk!”  She heard one screaming, then “Get your cox in order Cambridge!” She tried to catch Richard’s eye, needing him to reassure her that she had heard correctly and that it wasn’t appropriate.  But he was too wrapped up in his own retaliation. 

“Our cox?  Our cox?  You’re too bloody close!”  His attention was on the television again, “Rooooooowwwwwwwwwwwwwww!”

From her vantage point she could survey the whole room.  She took into account Richard in his natural habitat amongst his peers and could finally see why he had struggled to fit in with their team. They were all united in a common activity.  And it was not one that Camille found remotely interesting.  Sure, the first two minutes had been interesting.  The grimacing, the exertion, the pure focus of both teams.  But then a map had popped up on the screen showing how much further there was to go and she began to lose interest.  It was such a very long way to the finish.  She felt her eyes wander first from the river to the buildings alongside it, then to the audience.  He wasn’t so different after all she thought.  He looked the same as everyone else, and as animated as he currently was she thought he looked better.  Totally absorbed, his eyes were fixed on the screen, drinking in his home, his university, the city he had left behind. 

He glanced up at her and the full impact of his smile hit her.  She couldn’t help but return it.  For the first time she had been utterly disarmed by him.  Charlotte glanced up to see what had caught his attention and smirked at her.  Camille’s smile faded and she felt her arm dropping with tiredness.  Someone rushed to remind her of her job.  “Hold it Camille...hold it..!”  Her resolve stiffened as did the muscles in her arm, but she wasn’t sure how much longer she could hold out for.

A hush fell over the crowd as the race started to take shape.  “Oh my God we’re making a break!”  Charlotte’s excited voice rang through the bar to many annoyed moans and groans. 

“Pull Oxford damn you!  Pull!” 

“Come on Cambridge!  Come on!”  Camille thought she had rarely seen him so excited.  Both his hands were bunched into fists, his face contorted into a competitive scowl.  He looked less...bookish.  More manly. 

And then she saw Charlotte’s arm around him.  Them both jumping up and down in excitement.  

She very nearly dropped the aerial then. Especially when she saw one of the men elbow Charlotte’s brother and waggle his eyebrows, point at the pair of them. Her brother, unimpressed, punched him on the shoulder. Camille was also not impressed, and had to bite her tongue. A clearly pessimistic Oxford supporter near her feet mumbled despondently, “Oh my God Cambridge are going to set a record.” The rest of the men were starting to quieten down now as well, with Cambridge clearly pulling further into the lead. She almost felt sorry for the Oxford lot, as it would surely have been better for them to lose by a short margin than a long one.

“Oxford won the goat race,” somebody said towards the back of the crowd, staring at their phone. It was met by groans – clearly the others didn’t feel this goat race (Camille would have to look that up later) was something worth celebrating.

“Yeah well it _is_ the only thing you lot are winning today,” Richard said gleefully. “Was that a stroke Oxford just missed, right off their stride now, aren’t they?” He’d put up with plenty of ribbing today, so Camille supposed he had the right to gloat (for once). He and Charlotte were able to move closer to the screen (and her) now Oxford were losing and it was becoming more painful for the other spectators to watch. They were on the final straight now, the crowds on the banks were going crazy.

“And Cambridge have an 11 length lead now,” She heard the commentator say. “Coming up to 15 minutes we are looking at a record if they can get over that finish line in the next minute. Good burst of speed there, they clearly realise there is more than just the win at stake!”

Richard and Charlotte weren’t cheering anymore, instead they seemed to be holding their breath – waiting to see if Cambridge could not only _beat_ Oxford into the ground (or river) but do so with a record breaking time.

“20 seconds to go before Cambridge miss out on a new record and I wish I could convey to you the atmosphere here…and YES! Cambridge have done it, they are the winners of the 161st boat race and in a record time of 16 minutes on the dot!”

But Camille couldn’t focus on the win.  The television might as well have been turned off, her ears were mute to the commentary, to the shouting to the groaning that was now coming from Oxford.  Only one thing had her attention.  Richard and Charlotte had now added hugging to their jumping.  Hugging!  - She thought bitterly of their one and only hug, awkward in the extreme, nothing like the jubilation that he was now experiencing.   He looked up and caught her eye, making a face to try and make her understand that he wasn’t entirely comfortable in this particular hug.  Camille smiled and nodded but tried to take a step back to put more distance between them, forgetting for a moment that she was on the bar. 

Her heel went over the edge. 

She balanced precariously, teetering for a precious half second which seemed like an eternity, before gravity got the better of her and she began to fall, pulling the aerial out of the television as she did so.

She braced herself for the crack of her head hitting the floor or a table or a chair and held her breath.  Only it never came.  Instead she felt tight arms wrap themselves around her torso, cushioning her body while her feet came to rest on the floor. 

Once her mind had fully comprehended this turn in events, Camille looked up to thank whichever one of the Oxford graduates had grabbed her, hoping they weren’t expecting anything more than a simple verbal expression of gratitude. To her surprise, it was a pair of very familiar green eyes she found herself looking into. Richard had somehow managed to catch her, a fact she felt the need to say aloud.

“You caught me!” Dear God, she sounded flustered.

“Yes I did,” he said, seeming a little surprised by the fact himself. “Actually at school we did this thing where somebody drops a metre ruler and you have to catch it between your thumb and forefinger and the distance on the ruler is a measure of reflexes and I had the best in class,” he rambled. Camille didn’t care what he was saying, as long as he didn’t move away from her.

She focused on his proximity, the sweet smell of beer that she knew she also had, his hands firm in their grip on her back and her shoulder.  She realised he was waiting for her to talk.

“Well thank you,” she told him sincerely.

“No, um, thank you,” he said.

This confused her a moment, “For falling?”

He gave a nervous little laugh that was also incredibly attractive. “No, for this whole thing – for giving me the boat race.”

“Well I didn’t arrange the boat race, Richard,” she said cheekily. “Somebody told me that it has been held in the centre of London every year since 1856.”

He felt her fingers at the nape of his neck and wondered if she had forgotten they were there.  She curled her hands around the skin and toyed with the short strands and he began to realise that she might want them there.  He was pretty sure that the last man she had done this too had not been suffering from hair loss. 

Those big brown eyes were still looking at him, willing him to respond, to flirt back.  He risked a look at her lips.  She noticed and a small smile bloomed on her face.  He thought about everything that had happened between them, about Charlotte thinking they were already a couple, about her buying him trousers, about her shoes in the Cambridge colours, about how much he desperately wanted to kiss her.

“Camille?”

“Yes?”

“Shut up.” She was going to object to that, but then he _was_ kissing her. It turned out it was very difficult to object to being told to shut up when you were being given such a pleasant activity to distract you from talking.

 

* * *

 

 

Charlotte saw the pair of them and felt like she was watching the end of some great romantic movie – except it was a lot more awkward. Her brother walked over to her and patted her a few times on the back. “Do you want me to beat him up?” He offered, taking her aback.

“Beat him up? Why on earth would you beat him up?”

“Because he led you on Lottie,” he said wide-eyed. “It’s just not on! Nobody insults a Salter lass like that on my watch!”

She was starting to think this island existed in some kind of parallel universe where Shakespearean farces were real. Before her brother hastily attempted to defend her honour she told him, “He wasn’t leading me on. We had a conversation in which I mentioned I was single at the moment but interested in somebody else…”

“You are?” He replied, wide eyed. “Ah, it’s not John is it? Because I _will_ beat him up!”

“Never you mind who it is,” she said quickly, thinking they were both too old for this routine. She wasn’t a teenager anymore. “The point is Richard didn’t lead me on, so no poundings are to be handed out today. Apart from the one Cambridge just gave Oxford,” she couldn’t help but add on the end.

“Aye, alright Lottie,” he said, smirking. “No poundings. Though I think me and some of the other boys would agree it might be time the pair of them broke it off…”

 

* * *

 

 

In his moment of triumph Richard had forgotten that the television had lost reception and that the bar was quiet in light of there being so few Cambridge alumni.  He had forgotten that Camille’s mother was in the bar, and that he probably wasn’t the most popular of people given the fact that his team had just won.  Neither saw the nudging or heard the catcalling.  And they certainly didn’t see anyone remove the soda jet from its holding behind the bar.

A steady jet of fizzy water hit them both on the cheek and they separated spluttering like chastised dogs, Richard looking mortified and Camille desperately trying to avoid Catherine’s amused eye.   

Charlotte grimaced apologetically, “I couldn’t stop them.”

“Well it is probably better than being thrown in the Thames,” Richard said, able to be magnanimous for once.

“Well we don’t currently have access to the Thames,” one of the Oxford lot said sensibly. “Mind I believe the sea isn’t too far off? And it doesn’t seem fair that the _other_ Cambridge supporter should go unscathed…”

As the men all cheered and gathered around Charlotte, Richard saw her sigh. She was clearly resigned to her fate. The men easily lifted her and carried her off in the direction of the ocean, and he even thought he saw a half smile on her face implying she might actually be enjoying herself. “Aren’t you going to help her?” Camille asked.

“No.  Being thrown in the Caribbean Sea is also a lot nicer than being thrown in the Thames.”

She giggled. “How do you know you’ve never been in either?”

“I’ve been in the sea here.” She raised an eyebrow.  He conceded, “for a paddle.”  He closed his eyes.  “Oh God, what are you doing with me?”

“I think it’s called kissing.”

“Yeah, well don’t think too hard or you might decide that is as far as you ever want it to go.”

Camille noted that her mother had decided to make herself scarce, probably to give the pair of them a little privacy – as well as start the masses of washing up.  She found a small smirk forming on her face, “Perhaps you should show me what I would be missing out on then?”

It was his turn to become flustered – or rather revert to being flustered, as he seemed to spend so much of his life in that state. Camille was about to backpedal a little, adapt a more softly-softly approach before she lost him, when a glint appeared in his eye. It seemed to her Richard Poole might just have had a revelation. No doubt the fact she was currently wearing a wet t-shirt helped.

“That,” he said, hands coming back to her waist tugging gently at the sodden material as if to reinforce her last thought, “seems like a very sensible plan of action.”

She was about to reply that she liked a man of action, when she saw him looking at her feet.  She followed his gaze down and he said rather despondently, “they ruined your shoes.”  She didn’t say anything, studying the discolouration for herself.  “And they’re your Cambridge shoes.”  She shrugged and he thought she looked annoyed at the water stain that in all probability wouldn’t come out.  He took the opportunity for the first time in his life to be gallant, after all he had kissed her leading to the shoes being ruined, and spoke before he could stop himself.  “I’ll buy you some more if you like?”

Well, that was an opportunity she couldn’t pass up.  She grabbed his hand and led him to the door.  Richard was looking slightly reticent until she explained cheekily.  “Perhaps tomorrow.  You realise you don’t have to buy me gifts just because I kissed you right? Because it isn’t _that_ much of a hardship.”

“That is _not_ why I offered,” he protested.

“Good,” she said, the cheeky grin still firmly in place. “Well then tomorrow perhaps you can buy me shoes _and_ a bag.”

Richard allowed himself to be dragged away, and despite his brain focusing on the fact that her t shirt really was clinging to her body in a very alluring and provocative way he couldn’t help feeling that he was being manipulated. 

But then he thought, he didn’t think he cared anymore.

 


End file.
